


Pub Night

by hardboiledbaby



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardboiledbaby/pseuds/hardboiledbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg and John have been meeting for Pub Nights every other Thursday for almost two years. But this one was bound to be different.</p><p>A Lestrade-centric hiatus fic, written in a feverish rush and posted just before S3 airs (even though it's already jossed by the mini-episode, but whatever). Haphazardly beaten with the self-beta stick and no Brit-pick, and why am I writing in an open canon, again?</p><p>Epic Greg+John friendship, background John/Mary, and pre-John/Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to wonderful themusecalliope, who gave me sage advice and encouragement when I most needed it; thank you, bb xoxo

Greg glanced at his watch as he got into the taxi and grimaced. Damn, by the time the cabbie got through the traffic, he was going to be nearly an hour late for Pub Night. Which, under normal circumstances, wouldn't be that big a deal. It wouldn't be the first time for either of them, their respective jobs being what they were. He began to pull out his mobile, then hesitated. Under normal circumstances, he'd call to say he was running late, or simply apologise and cancel.

The circumstances, however, weren't normal. They were anything but. 

It might turn out that John wasn't even there, and Greg did not want to make him feel badly if he had forgotten it was Pub Night, or guilty if he had simply decided not to show up. Greg dropped the phone back into his pocket and stared out the window as the taxi made its slow, meandering crawl through the darkening city streets, slick with rain.

*****

  
Greg couldn't precisely recall when they'd fallen into the pattern of once a fortnight on Thursdays, but they'd been getting together for drinks on the regular for nearly two years now. He did remember quite clearly the first time, some few weeks after Sherlock's—

Not _death_ , he reminded himself forcibly, trying to derail the thought before it automatically completed itself in his head. He had yet to be successful in doing so, but that was only to be expected, he supposed. One couldn't undo the habit of two long years in a matter of a few days.

What he had _not_ expected was the pain. It had returned full-force; or resurfaced, to be more accurate, since the sharp, ragged edges had never been blunted, merely concealed out of necessity and desperation, like a knife shoved haphazardly into a clumsy makeshift sheath. Now, unearthed and exposed, the wrenching quality of it was terribly familiar, for all that it was fueled by betrayal rather than loss and guilt. Maybe that was because the underlying impotent anger was the same.

Some few weeks after Sherlock's _trick_ , then. Greg had been catching up on overdue reports after his shift. He'd been relegated to desk duty anyway, pending the outcome of the investigation into his "ham-fisted handling of this whole bloody cock-up," as the Chief Superintendent had put it. Greg hadn't really minded; for the first time in his career, he actually welcomed the mind-numbing task. It was a damned sight better than the alternative, which was staying home and staring at the walls until he went round the twist. Here at the office there were lights and activity, even at this late hour. He could pretend he was being useful, and that he wasn't alone. He was well into the work when a soft tap on his door brought his head up in surprise. What he saw surprised him even further.

"Hello, Greg." 

It was the first words John had spoken to him since… before, since the debacle at Baker Street, the botched arrest. Greg had only seen him once since then: at Sherlock's funeral. John, pale but resolute, had stood with a soldier's bearing as he spoke with pride of his friend, unashamed of the tears that ran down his face. 

Greg had sat at the back of the church, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. He had no intention of approaching John or any of Sherlock's family; had, in fact, initially decided against attending the services at all so as not to upset anyone, but found he _had_ to be there, to pay his respects, to mourn. He was spotted, of course. Mycroft Holmes had stared coldly through him, but John's eyes narrowed and his face hardened. Greg took a breath, bracing himself, but he didn't avert his eyes. He owed John at least that much, to look the man in the face and take whatever John chose to mete out—disgust, hatred, even vitriol.

John studied him for several long moments, his grim expression never altering. When a woman with the same sandy brown hair as John—his sister, probably—came over and touched his arm, John left with her. He might have given the slightest nod as he turned… but no, that was just too much to hope for, so Greg had dismissed it as wishful thinking.

Only, maybe it wasn't, after all.

"Hello," Greg said. His voice sounded strained, so he cleared his throat and began again. "Hello, John." As John hesitated in the doorway, Greg got to his feet and came around his desk. "Come in, please."

After a beat, John entered. Greg gestured him to a chair, and they both sat down. John reached into the satchel he was carrying and drew out a stack of folders. 

"These were at the flat," John said. He didn't look up. "Sherlock must've—" He stopped and swallowed. "I know they're not originals, just copies, but I thought you'd want…." He trailed off uncertainly and, still without meeting Greg's eyes, held out the stack. 

Greg reached out and took the files, running a hand over the topmost folder: cold cases that he'd given to Sherlock months ago, during one of the consulting detective's _oh my God why is everything and everyone so stupid and boring_ periods. Sherlock had actually read through several of the "less tedious" ones and pointed out some clues the initial investigations had missed. Armed with the new information, Greg was able to close one case of attempted murder and another involving industrial espionage before the business with the Reichenbach painting turned Sherlock into the tabloid darling and the old crimes were forgotten. 

"I'm glad to get them back. Thank you for taking the trouble to bring them round yourself," Greg said, then added, "It's good to see you." 

John glanced up then, and one corner of his mouth quirked slightly. "To tell you the truth, I wasn't expecting to see you."

 _Oh._ Greg felt his face flush. Of course. John had come after hours deliberately to avoid running into him. He was an idiot to think—

"No," John protested, "I didn't mean it like that. Sorry, I just…." He rubbed his eyes and sighed. "Mycroft was going to hire movers to pack up Sherlock's things. _Strangers._ I… I couldn't let that happen."

"So you've been doing it yourself," Greg said softly. John nodded.

"Since yesterday. It… it's been a bit of a rough go." 

The understatement of the year, if John's appearance was anything to go by. He looked beyond exhausted, drained of color, of life. 

"I kept finding things, and remembering, and wondering, and thinking, and—" John cut off the wavering words. After a steadying breath, he went on, "I needed a break. The files were a reason to get out, clear my head a little. And yeah, I figured it was decent odds that I wouldn't run into Anderson or Donovan at this hour. Don't think I can be civil to those two yet." The icy edge in his voice told Greg that those odds had been in Anderson's and Donovan's favour, not John's. 

"I admit, I wasn't expecting to run into you, either." John gave him a straight look. "But I wasn't avoiding you, Greg. It's good to see you, too." He held out his hand: absolution. Greg couldn't fathom why it was being offered to him, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He shook the proffered hand gratefully.

John nodded and a faint smile came and went. "Well. I suppose I should be getting back. There's still a lot to get sorted and Mrs Hudson's patience won't last forever." He flexed his fingers around the armrests a few times, took a breath, and Greg could see the man digging deep into his reserves, steeling himself to resume the lonely, painful task he hated but could not abandon. John was tough, Greg knew, but everyone had a limit, a breaking point. He wondered how close John was to his. 

On an impulse, Greg said, "I could lend a hand with the packing, if you want. It's my day off tomorrow, and I'd be glad to help—" 

John was giving Greg an intense, searching look, and it suddenly occurred to him, belatedly, that maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Maybe it was a really _bad_ idea. "Not that I want to intrude," he added hastily, "or, or anything, I was just…." 

_Just tearing down fences before they were barely mended and making a complete bollocks of everything, that's all._ Greg could have kicked himself.

"You know what, never mind—" Greg began, embarrassed, but John cut him off, surprising him again.

"I'd like that," he said quietly. "You were his friend, Greg; you believed in him, long before I ever did. That meant a lot to Sherlock, you know. And it means a lot to me."

Greg swallowed against a lump in his throat. "Right, then," he said gruffly. "I'll meet you at the flat tomorrow. Leave it for tonight, okay?"

John raised an eyebrow pointedly at the spread of open reports on Greg's desk. "I will if you will."

Greg huffed out a small chuckle. "Yeah, alright. Fancy a pint?" And John did.

At a nearby pub, Greg offered a toast. "To Sherlock." 

"To Sherlock," John echoed, then added, "To friends."

*****

  
Given its dubious beginnings—clustered as they'd been around a dead woman—theirs might have seemed an unlikely friendship. At the time, Greg hadn't known what to make of Sherlock's companion, and frankly hadn't been overly impressed, Sherlock's lofty "he's with me" notwithstanding. Finding out the man was Sherlock's new flatmate, and then having this newly-minted flatmate suddenly turn up at the scene of another dead body, however, did make him reconsider. John's "innocent" face was shite, and besides, he'd later got the urgent messages that John had been trying to reach him right before the cabbie had been shot.

Their acquaintance improved with time, as did Greg's opinion of the Army doctor. Still, for the longest time he'd seen John only in connection with Sherlock, as though the man had little to offer beyond that. Greg had been thoroughly ashamed of himself when he realised his subconscious had bought into that fallacy, but it was nonetheless a hard habit to break. Then again, it was evidently much the same for John, who saw the DI solely through Sherlock's context. Locked in their own separate orbits around Sherlock, each one only saw the parts of the other that Sherlock saw. The earth never sees the far side of the moon.

Pub Nights changed that.

They started out talking about Sherlock, naturally: Greg sharing stories of early cases, John divulging details of the ones that hadn't made it into his blog. They commiserated over the many headaches and varied frustrations that were an inevitable consequence of life with a mad genius, even as they marvelled over the mad genius' brilliant deductions. "For a smart bloke, Sherlock could be a fucking idiot" anecdotes were also a favourite topic.

After a while, their conversations broadened, and the two men got to know each other without the influence of Sherlock's gravitational pull. They talked about their childhoods, cheerfully argued about rugby, and discussed the merits of Classic Who versus New Who at great length. They agreed that Classic was the superior series but held a (mostly) good-natured feud over which Doctor was the best. John staunchly defended Third Doctor against Greg's sporting jibes of "James Bond wannabe" and "all those gadgets and he still couldn't fix the TARDIS" while countering with a taunting "Third Doctor could kick Fourth Doctor's arse and his Jelly Babies clear back to Gallifrey, see if he couldn't." 

They were both Original Star Trek fans as well, it turned out. Greg, an unabashed Trekkie, took to quoting random lines from the show and the movies at every opportunity, which John tolerated with considerable amusement.

They celebrated their victories on Pub Nights, too; the milestones, large and small, that meant they were moving on with their lives. They raised their glasses when John took a position at a walk-in centre, and when Greg was reinstated to full duty. The day Sherlock was exonerated and Moriarty exposed for the psychopathic villain he truly was had been a particularly fine occasion for a drink, and they'd had several. Greg's divorce went through at long last, and that send-off had held both regret and relief. 

When John announced his engagement, Greg had been delighted. Mary Morstan, a military wife turned war widow, was a lovely thing with honey-blonde hair, dark blue eyes, and a gentle smile. She was sweet and charming and completely devoted to John, and the two of them made the perfect picture of a loving couple, kindred spirits. Greg began making plans for a proper stag party, but John had demurred, saying, "Thanks, but... let's keep it low-key, alright? It hasn't been a year yet." 

The implication that John should still be in mourning for Sherlock— no, _was_ still mourning—made Greg feel hollow, and he desperately wanted to hit someone. Since he couldn't, he nodded instead and said with determined cheerfulness:

"Well, you're the man of the hour, mate. What do you want to do?"

The groom and his best man spent the evening before the ceremony as they had spent so many others: with a toast to Sherlock and friendship, then companionable conversation over a pint or two. A Pub Night just like any other, except for the small velvet-lined box Greg kept safe in his pocket.


	2. Chapter 2

A blaring horn and a muttered curse brought Greg's attention back to the present. All around them, traffic had skittered to a standstill. "Christ, now what?"

The cab driver spared him a glance over his shoulder. "Must be a pile-up, guv." He peered through the windscreen and grunted. "A big one, by the looks of it." 

Greg leaned forward and could make out a multitude of flashing lights in the distance, blurred by the gloom and the lingering rain. _Damn._ Hopefully no one was badly hurt, but wet, icy streets and poor visibility were a dangerous combination. Sometimes, it was a deadly one.

Mary.

The thought of her, killed by a runaway lorry on a night much like this one, brought a heavy ache to Greg's chest. He'd gone from best man to pallbearer in the space of eight months, and John—

No tears this time, and hardly any words. It wasn't stoicism so much as surrender, and Greg kept a close, anxious eye on his friend all through the days leading up to the funeral and during the service itself. 

After it was all over, after the coffin had been lowered and the other mourners had left, John said "I'll see you, Greg" in a flat monotone and turned to leave. 

Instinctively, Greg reached out and grabbed John's arm.

John hadn't said "goodbye" or "take care of yourself" and he wouldn't, he would _not_ , but if there was even the slightest chance that he was considering there was no bloody way Greg was going to let him and maybe that wasn't fair but _fuck_ fair, John Watson wasn't the only one who lost—

"Wait." 

Greg had been trained on how to speak to traumatised victims and grieving survivors, had done so countless times, yet now he couldn't dredge up the right words. 

"Wait." Too hard and too urgent, just like his hand, holding on tight.

John looked at Greg, really _looked_ at him without the dullness of defeat clouding his eyes. A spark of understanding flashed, and John opened his mouth as if to protest, to deny….

"I need a drink," is what he said, in a reasonable facsimile of his usual steady voice. "No, scratch that. I need _many_ drinks." He moved his arm in an amiable 'hey, you're cutting off my circulation' way and Greg let his fingers slide off. "Drowning my sorrows, care to join me?"

*****

  
Many drinks later, Greg decided—no, _deduced_ —that drowning one's sorrows was a complete crock of shit.

The logic was undeniable. If sufficient alcohol could, in fact, consign a person's miseries to a watery death, so to speak, then he should have been feeling a damn sight better than he was. And John should have been _ecstatic_.

So, yeah. Crock of shit.

Greg had seen John put away a prodigious number of pints before, but this was different. His drink of choice for the evening was whisky, and he was downing shots with a workmanlike efficiency that was, Greg had to admit, rather impressive. And a little worrisome.

"'Nuff of thish," John said eventually, pushing his empty glass away. Greg was about to heave a sigh of relief when he went on, "I want poteen."

_Oh, bloody hell._

"I think you've had enough," Greg said, and fervently hoped he wasn't going to have a battle on his hands. He honestly didn't know which one of them would win.

"No." John shook his head wearily. "Not yet." _Not drowned yet._

"I know," Greg said gently. "It's been a long day, I'm knackered. Let's go home, eh?" This time, John didn't protest. Greg got him to his feet and they staggered out into the street together.

Greg had chosen a pub close to where John lived, and the advance planning paid off well. It only took a few minutes for them to lurch their way to John's building and they made it up the stairs without incident. John meekly allowed Greg to manhandle him into the flat and into his bedroom. Greg sat him down on the bed and went to fetch a glass of water; when he returned, John was precariously slumped over to one side, blinking owlishly.

Greg sighed and propped him upright. "Here," he said, handing John the water. John didn't look best pleased but drank it down. 

Greg put a hand on his shoulder as he started to list again. "C'mon then," he urged, "you're going to want out of that suit before you fall asleep." _Or throw up on it._ He pulled John's shoes off and stood the man up once more.

They managed it by Greg keeping John more or less vertical while John fumbled at his clothes until he was down to his vest and pants. He swayed with his eyes closed during the proceedings, and as soon as Greg sat him back down, he toppled over sideways, curled into a ball, murmured something soft and anguished, and lay still. 

Greg kipped on the sofa, or tried to. Mostly he lay awake, one ear open in case John got sick, and thought about Mary, who had been no stranger to the pain and desolation of sudden loss, who had needed someone to care for her and for her to care for in return, whose first love had been killed in action. 

Mary and John. Kindred spirits.

No wonder John couldn't drown the sorrows. No wonder the sorrows were drowning _him_.

Greg stared into the dark and waited for sleep, or dawn.

*****

  
"Nnnngh?"

Greg turned from the counter to see John leaning in the doorway, rumpled dressing gown hanging crookedly on his shoulders.

"Well, look at what the cat brought in," Greg said, as John shuffled into the kitchen and gingerly sat down at the table. "'Morning." John grunted in reply and Greg smiled faintly. He reached for the coffeepot. "Toast will be ready in a minute."

Another grunt, this one conveying horror at the mere thought of anything food-related. John propped his elbows on the table and put his chin in his hands. His eyes were screwed shut over his fingertips. 

"How many pints did I have?" he eventually croaked, and winced when the toaster popped. 

"Two." Greg chuckled at John's disbelieving huff. "Then you switched to whisky."

"Oh." John cracked open one eye when Greg set plate and mug in front of him, but otherwise didn't move. Greg sat down opposite and sipped at his own coffee.

"I did stop you before you got to the poteen," he went on conversationally. John made a noise, to which Greg said, "You're welcome." 

"That wasn't a 'thank you,'" John said, but it was more plaintive than peevish. He opened his other eye and regarded Greg blearily.

"No?" Greg gave him a sympathetic smile. "You're welcome anyway."

John rubbed his face before dropping his hands to cradle them around his mug. He gave the contents a wary look before taking a cautious sip. He grimaced and swallowed, poked at the dry toast, and drank more coffee.

"I suppose I _should_ be grateful to the cat for dragging my sorry arse in," he said, after a minute. "And for sticking around afterwards. That was beyond the call of duty, mate." He raised his mug and Greg did the same. Their usual toast went unsaid.

John pressed at his temples and groaned. "Oh god, worst bender ever. I hope I didn't do anything stupid."

Greg thought about words slurred with grief and exhaustion: a name, and a plea that would go unanswered.

"No, nothing stupid," Greg said.

*****

  
As Greg was leaving, John handed him a flat box, about the size of a book. Puzzled, Greg was about to open it when John stopped him, briefly putting his hand on Greg's.

"No, best you don't. At least—" and his tone went wry for a moment, "—let's pretend you won't. Just… keep it for a while. Keep it safe." 

Greg held the box in his lap and felt the contents shift, heard it slide against the sides as the taxi changed lanes and turned corners on its way to his flat. He knew, then, but when he got home he looked inside anyway.

A SIG Sauer. The handgun John wasn't meant to have, and the one Greg wasn't meant to know about. John's answer to the question Greg hadn't been able to ask at the cemetery, his pledge. 

It was, under the circumstances, the very best comfort Greg could have asked for.


	3. Chapter 3

When he finally arrived at the pub, it was surprisingly full for a Thursday night. Greg had to thread his way through a large group of exuberantly tipsy drinkers who were clustered three and four deep around the bar, blocking the spaces between the tables. Once past the crush, he was disappointed to see that their usual table was occupied by unfamiliar faces. _Ah, well._ Greg mentally shrugged and turned around, trying to decide if it was worth staying for a pint anyway. He'd have to stand at the bar for it and he wasn't sure how much of the other patrons' good humour and jostling he could handle, even collaterally. On the other hand, he was cold and tired, and the streets were still snarled with cars going nowhere fast.

"Greg!" came a voice from behind him, and he turned around again. He spotted a hand in the back of the room, waving above the sea of heads. Relieved, Greg headed towards it.

John was seated at a small table tucked awkwardly in an alcove barely big enough for the purpose. "The place was already jam-packed when I got here," he said as they shook hands. "This was the best I could get."

"It's fine," Greg replied. He draped his coat on the back of the remaining vacant chair and sat down. "Quieter back here, anyway."

"Yeah, but farther from the bar. I don't think Fran gets back here much." 

Greg glanced around for the waitress. "I don't even see her."

"She's somewhere over there," John said, indicating the large group. "A going-away party, I gather. They're keeping her pretty busy." He tilted the nearly-empty glass in his hand. "I started without you."

"I'm glad you did. Sorry, got stuck at a crime scene, and then the traffic was jammed up for miles."

"Was it that one in Canary Wharf?" At Greg's nod, John went on, "Yeah, it's already on the news." He gestured with his chin at the telly mounted to the wall. "When I saw the report, I had a hunch you'd be involved. Sounds like a real puzzler."

And John didn't even know the half. A financier by the name of Crosby had been found dead in his posh Canada Square office. With no signs of violence or forced entry, it might have been put down to a coronary, save for the fact that the corpse's skin had been hard and waxy and a horrible shade of crimson, like a grotesque human lobster. Most of the salient facts of the case had not been made public, but no matter; Greg didn't need to have seen the newscast to know that the few details that had been released had then been played up for all the sensationalistic effect that could be wrung from them. Reporters excelled in tarting up deliberately vague press releases with provocative buzzwords. Throw in "shocking!" and "bizarre!" enough times, and any news story became more interesting. "Police baffled!" was another favourite, one that never failed to set Greg's teeth on edge. 

This particular case, however, was all of those things in truth, much to Greg's chagrin. He just sighed.

"It is, at that." 

John stared into his beer and said casually, "Sounds like the kind of case Sherlock would be panting to get his hands on."

Greg felt a flare of anger. "You mean the kind of case he would be barging his way into, don't you? Swooping in, bull in a china shop, taking over—" He clamped down on the rest of it and stood. "Sorry."

"Greg—" John said, alarmed.

"Looks like I'll have to get my own pint," Greg said quickly. "You ready for another?" John closed his mouth on whatever he was going to say and simply nodded. Greg trudged to the bar. 

The lone barman was at the far end of the counter, still being inundated with orders. He shot Greg an apologetic glance, and Greg gave a shrug of resignation. He leaned against the bar to wait, and fume.

It was exactly the kind of case that would appeal to the _not-dead-never-was_ son of a bitch. And, he had to admit to himself, it would have been even odds as to who would have texted whom first, because it was also the kind of case that Greg would have willingly asked Sherlock to help with, once upon a time. 

But that was then, and this was now, and Greg would be damned if he'd lift a single finger to call the bastard. As for Sherlock…. Greg's phone had been conspicuously free of texts from that quarter, save for one.

*****

  


**John Watson in danger, 427 Park Lane, R Adair**

  


Greg didn't recognise the phone number, but he did recognise the name: Ronnie Adair had been a good friend of Mary's. John wasn't answering his phone, and Greg wasn't going to take any chances. He rushed to Westminster, burst into Ronnie Adair's flat and found Sherlock— _my God, Sherlock_ —in a full-on brawl with the woman. 

Greg was so stunned, it took several seconds and a growled "For God's sake, Lestrade!" before he could move. It took the two of them to subdue Adair, who was tough and fast and fought dirty, and had the moves and instincts of a trained mercenary.

Which, it turned out, she actually was. 

"Sabrina Moran, Moriarty's second in command, and the final chess piece on the board," Sherlock said, when he got his breath back.

John, hazy with drugs and bound to a chair, looked completely shell-shocked, and Greg was right there with him.

*****

  
A thousand threads, Sherlock had said during James Moriarty's trial, and it had not been an exaggeration. Moriarty's criminal web was vast and intricate, and even with the spider dead, the threads remained: connecting and intersecting, still vicious, still deadly. Dismantling the network had been a long and arduous process, hampered by the necessity of keeping Sherlock's existence a secret. As long as the criminals thought he was out of the picture, they continued to operate as they had, with impunity, as though they were untouchable.

It had been a dangerous process too, Greg was certain, although Sherlock did not elaborate as he gave his statement. He stuck strictly to the facts with none of his usual theatrics, spoke quietly and without emotion, and kept his eyes fixed unwaveringly on John. 

John did not look at him.

Assassins, Sherlock said, and Greg was surprised yet again. He'd been a target, as had John and Mrs Hudson. Eliminating those threats (and Greg was NOT going to think about the implications of _that_ ) had been the most difficult, a campaign of attrition that required the hunters to be unaware they were being hunted, until it was too late.

Eventually, though, the enemy took notice. Their losses were unmistakably mounting and they grew vigilant out of desperation. When at long last they discovered who their nemesis was, it became an all-out race to close the nets around what was left of the organization. With Mycroft's help, the thing was done, the trap was shut, and everyone was apprehended… save one. 

Moran was not one to surrender, however. She was an inveterate gambler, and she had one more card to play. 

The kidnapping and attempted murder of John Watson would be included in the list of charges against Sabrina Moran, of course, but there was ample evidence to convict her without, many times over: cold-blooded killings committed at Moriarty's whim, as well as her own. She gambled, and lost.

Sherlock had won.

Greg was livid.

*****

  
With a supreme effort, Greg managed not to punch the bastard in the face as he gave his statement, but it was a very near thing. As it was, he'd been so angry he could scarcely breathe, let alone speak, and he wasn't the only one. John, recovered from the tranquilliser, was as enraged as Greg had ever seen him. No, scratch that: he'd _never_ seen John this coldly furious.

"I… I was trying to keep you safe," Sherlock said at last, and the icy cold was gone, evaporated in an instant.

"Safe? You're talking to the man that you yourself said missed the war. Did it never occur to you that I don't _want_ to be safe?"

"John—"

"Shut up. This was my fight, every bit as it was yours. I deserved to be on the front lines, not hiding somewhere _safe_." He spat out the word like it tasted bad. "You got Molly Hooper involved, for Christ's sake, _Molly_ , and you let me think you were dead! For two fucking years, Sherlock. You died and left me behind." John drew in a sharp breath. "You left me behind."

"I… I didn't think—"

"No, you didn't." The ice was back in John's eyes. "And that is the most unforgivable thing of all."

When John left, Sherlock half-rose as though to follow him, but Greg stopped him, saying flatly, "Leave him be, Sherlock. You don't know the hell he's been through." 

Sherlock's lips parted but Greg cut him off. "I don't give a damn what you think you know, what you think you've deduced, or what kind of intel you were getting from your brother, or whatever. You think you know, but you don't. If you've an ounce of decency—" But that was unfair, so Greg swallowed it down. "Just… don't hurt him anymore. He doesn't deserve it."

"Lestrade—" 

Greg didn't think he could take any more. "Don't," he choked out, and turned back to his desk. His eyes fell on Sherlock's statement, saw "221B Baker Street" next to Sherlock's scrawl of a signature. Of course. Mycroft's doing, no doubt. Pick up right where he left off.

The only thing that saved Sherlock from a black eye was the fact that there was no triumph in his manner whatsoever, none of his smug superiority or preening conceit. He was subdued, quiet; perhaps even humbled, if that was even remotely possible. That, and the certain knowledge that Sherlock was clean. He hadn't been using, Greg would swear to it. Small comfort, but it kept Greg's hands at his sides, clenched but still.

"We're done here." He didn't turn, didn't move. Stood there and waited for Sherlock to leave.

After a long pause, Sherlock left.


	4. Chapter 4

John laughed as Greg set down four pints, which basically took up the entire surface of the little table. "A bit parched?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "I might've died of thirst, waiting to get served. Since it took so long, I thought I may as well bring the next round with me as well." He tapped his forehead. "Always think ahead, John."

"Wise advice," John said, nodding. 

Greg picked up one of the glasses and automatically started to raise it and make the usual toast. When he realised what he was doing, he froze.

John met his eyes for a moment. Then, with calm deliberation, he picked up his pint and raised it. "To friends." 

"To friends," Greg said, and they drank.

John put down his glass, waited for Greg to lower his, and with the same calm deliberation said, "I'm moving back to Baker Street."

Greg stared at the man in disbelief. 

When he could finally say something, the words that came out of his mouth were "So you've forgiven him, then."

Perhaps he shouldn't have been so shocked. Greg himself was a beneficiary of John's capacity to let go of the wrongs, living testimony of the power of second chances. And John had lost so much, regret pouring out of him like so much spilt milk; regret for something he hadn't even known he'd needed until it was gone. He couldn't fault the man for wanting his own second chance. But John had been so angry, and rightfully so.

Now he gave a small rueful laugh.

"I know, after calling him unforgivable, right?" His smile faded. "I… did a lot of thinking after I said that. Then I called Sherlock and we talked. And, well." He rubbed his neck. "I suppose I have forgiven him, yeah." He hesitated, then added, "Maybe you should think about it, too."

Greg shook his head, but it was more bewilderment than anything else. "I don't know how you do it, John."

"Oh, I'm no saint. I won't ever forget what he did, or how it made me feel. But knowing what we know now…." John leaned forward earnestly. "Think about it, Greg. If it had been you up there on St. Bart's, faced with that choice—one life for three—what would you have done?

Greg opened his mouth, then closed it. Opened it again, then slowly, carefully, took a swallow of his pint.

John nodded. "You'd have jumped, I know you would've. I… I think I would've, too. I mean, there was no guarantee that Moriarty would've kept his word and spared anyone, of course. But, on the chance that you could save someone, and not just anyone, but a friend, three friends…. You can't tell me you wouldn't have done it. Especially considering the alternative."

_The alternative being that you would've lived while your friends died, you would've lived knowing that you could have stopped it, maybe, but didn't. Even if you somehow managed to capture Moriarty, or kill him, you couldn't stop the snipers. The victory would be so hollow and tainted so as to be no victory at all._

"The difference between us and Sherlock, though, is that he figured out a way to out-think Moriarty. I wish… oh God, I wish he'd had found some other way, but he did it. He did it, Greg." There was fierce pride in his voice, and Greg felt his throat tighten. 

"You know what I told him, right before? When I thought he was being a callous, heartless bastard?" There were tears on John's face now, but he didn't seem to notice. "I told him that friends protect people. 

"And all along, that's what he was doing."

There were tears on Greg's face, too. He didn't care.

The great man had become the good man. It came at great cost, to all of them. But then again, nothing worthwhile came easy.

"Sherlock is Spock," Greg said suddenly. When John looked at him quizzically, he clarified, "Spock beat the no-win scenario by dying to save his friends." 

"Oh." John looked thoughtful. "But didn't Kirk beat the _Kobayashi Maru_ test by cheating?"

"Point," Greg said, smiling. "But Spock fits better." _He attempted Kolinahr, but ultimately accepted his emotions, his humanity._

"'The needs of the many—'" John quoted, and Greg nodded. 

"'—Outweigh the needs of the few, or the one,'" he finished.

"He wanted us to live long and prosper," John almost whispered. Somehow, it didn't sound as corny as it should have.

"And he came back to life," Greg said. 

They were quiet for a moment. Then,

"I guess that makes you McCoy then," Greg said, trying to lighten the mood. 

"I'm a doctor, Jim, not a…." John waved a hand in the air for a moment, then laughed. It was a good laugh. "Yeah, I got nothing."

"You _are_ a doctor, period," Greg said firmly. "A healer." 

"'Physician, heal thyself'?" John asked wryly.

"Oh, I think all of us will need a bit more healing, still," Greg replied. And they would heal, he knew. John would make sure of it.

"That must make you Scotty, then," John said. When Greg rolled his eyes, he added, "What? Chief inspector, chief engineer, same difference."

Greg snickered. "Well, I'm not an old Aberdeen pub-crawler, but I can appreciate a good Scotch whisky." He looked into his glass. "Sadly, I have none."

"But you're Scotty! Can't you do something?" 

"I cannae change the laws of physics! I've got to have thirty minutes!" It was a damn fine brogue, and John's snicker was rather insulting. "Dinnae be mocking me, laddie."

They were snorting and giggling when John's phone chimed. He pulled it out, rolled his eyes at the screen. He quickly tapped out a reply and put the phone back in his pocket. 

Sherlock, Lestrade knew. 

In the space of the next five minutes, the chime went off four more times. Finally, John grimaced apologetically and pulled out his phone again. "Oh, for the love of—"

Lestrade raised an inquiring brow and John simply handed him the phone. On the screen it said:

**When are you coming home? SH**

**When I'm bloody well good and ready. JW**

**Will you be bloody well good and ready anytime soon? SH**

**John? SH**

**John. SH**

**We're out of milk. SH**

  
Lestrade laughed. It was the first time he'd really laughed in a long time, and it felt good, it felt right. After a moment, John's annoyed expression gave way to amusement, then he began chuckling. In short order they were both roaring with laughter, red in the face and gasping for air.

When they finally caught their breath, Lestrade said, "Time for you to shove off, then," and handed the phone back to John. 

"Oh hey, there's no need for that," John protested, but Lestrade merely grinned.

"Go on, get the big baby his milk, eh?" 

"John smiled back and gave in. "Alright. See you on Thursday after next." He stood and picked up his jacket.

Greg shook his head. "No."

Startled, John paused halfway into his jacket. "What?"

"See you tomorrow first," Greg said, deadpan. 

John stared in puzzlement for a second, then his eyes went wide, disbelieving. His lips parted, but he didn't say anything. Couldn't, apparently. After a very long beat, Greg broke into a grin and nodded.

"I'll call at the flat in the morning, ask him to help on the case. Don't tell him though, alright?"

John grinned back, and damn, but it did Greg's heart good to see it. 

The two of them had forged something together around the gaping Sherlock-shaped hole in their lives, a bulwark against the vacuum created by their shared loss. Now that the void was filled, they could only be the stronger for it. All three of them.

"I won't. Thanks, Greg." John clapped him on the shoulder and headed for the front. 

Greg felt his pocket buzz.

**Thank you. SH**

  
Greg glanced up, but John was chatting with the barman as he was paying his tab. The only thing in his hands was his wallet.

The words "I have been, and always shall be, your friend" came to Greg, unbidden. Not in Spock's gravelly baritone, but a much more familiar one.

 _You're welcome, Sunshine,_ he thought. _And welcome home._

 

 

 

**He did not feel this sacrifice a vain or empty one, and we will not debate his profound wisdom at these proceedings. Of my friend, I can only say this: of all the souls I have encountered in my travels, his was the most... human.**  


—James Kirk, in his eulogy of Spock  
Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan


End file.
